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It was a dull, cold night. The Necromancer’s hands shook slightly as he traversed through the graveyard, though the chill wasn’t the source of his turmoil. No, the man was angry, plain and simple. Furious, even.
He was under heavy suspicion, courtesy of the meddling Investigator. Technically, the detective hadn’t found anything in his home worthy of further inquiry – thanks to the Necronomicon in his possession, he was clean. However, he knew firsthand that townsfolk were frequently lynched due to weak, impotent evidence. Any sort of suspicion would only serve to hinder him and his Coven.
A flash of white marble caught his eye, prompting the Necromancer to pause. He had found his treasure. The large grave in front of him held the lycanthrope that had been killed the previous night, slain by a rampaging Berserker. Knowing the corpse wouldn’t be a pretty sight, the sorcerer exhaled deeply to ground himself. Before commencing, he forced all thoughts of the Investigator out of his head. Petty notions would only serve as a distraction.
Digging his fingers into the crevice below the tomb’s lid, he managed to pry up the cover with relative ease. He had been in the business of necromancy for years; it was no surprise that he’d managed to build some upper body strength.
Once the lid was off, he let out a low whistle at the ravaged, stinking carcass that greeted him. It was what others would consider trash, though the Necromancer treated the corpse as though it was liquid gold. There was no doubt that it would serve a wonderful purpose.
The sorcerer began to recite the incantation he’d been able to utter for as long as he could remember, bringing out a ritual knife as he did so. Taking care not to get blood on his robes, he carved the Necronomicon’s sigil into what was left of the Werewolf’s chest. Behind the ram’s mask he wore, a wide smirk was plastered onto his face. Excitement coursed through his veins as he observed his work. Soon enough, the shape-shifter would be his to manipulate.
He hoped the Investigator had taken the initiative to request the protection of a Bodyguard, for the Necromancer was sure there would be a massacre that night.
***
“Can I help you?” The Investigator asked, shooting his visitor a curious look.
Poor bastard. The idiot couldn’t be any less oblivious. Without a word, the Necromancer opted to stare daggers into the eyes of the man in front of him. Donning a nervous frown, the detective attempted to slam his door shut. He had no idea that his fate had already been sealed.
The rotting body of the Werewolf staggered out from the shadows, controlled by the furious sorcerer. It made no noise, and instead raised its massive fists. One powerful blow was enough to knock the door clean off its hinges, granting the Necromancer and his puppet entry. He could hear the Investigator yelling for help, the man having retreated deep into his house. His smirk returned, wider than ever.
“Oh, come on. You don’t want to die with a little dignity?” He asked, beginning his slow march into the residence. “Come out now, and I’ll make it quick.”
There was no rush, really. He could take as long as he wanted. Even if reinforcements showed up, he had a lycanthropic meatshield that wouldn’t hesitate to throw itself in front of him. As he thought of all the ways he would make the Investigator pay, a shout from behind him made him pause.
Ah. It was the Bodyguard, just as he had predicted.
“I said to stop right there, you filthy warlock!” The armored man screamed, brandishing a battle axe. So brash, yet so stupid.
With a skillful flick of the Necromancer’s wrist, he commanded the lycanthrope’s carcass to turn. It lunged at the Bodyguard with ferocious speed, sinking its claws into his iron chestplate. The man screamed as the corpse tore into him, ripping out chunks of flesh with each swipe of the paw.
He managed to sink his axe into the neck of the Werewolf, but by then it was too late. The guardian stumbled backwards, coughing up hot, dark blood. It poured from his mouth and dribbled down his chin in red rivulets. Gasping for breath, he tore the weapon out of his attacker’s nape and drove it straight into the beast’s skull.
The Werewolf’s cranium was easily cleaved, effectively rendering its body useless. It fell to the ground with a loud, wet thud, and the Bodyguard followed soon after.
With a disappointed sigh, the Necromancer wiped a droplet of blood from his robes. They were completely ruined, of course. He’d have to get the Voodoo Master to make him a new set – unsurprisingly, the man truly knew his way around a needle.
“Filthy warlock,” He mocked, staring at the Bodyguard’s corpse lying at his feet. The idiot knew nothing. He had no knowledge of the Coven’s plans, no knowledge of the way they operated. They were not some rag-tag group of criminals, running around and committing petty crimes. No, they were much, much more than that.
He no longer had access to the Werewolf’s carcass, but it was no matter. Honestly, the Necromancer suspected he’d enjoy killing the Investigator with his bare hands far more than using a measly puppet. He'd paint the walls with the ignorant hick's blood. The Necronomicon, secure in the pockets of his cloak, empowered him. Power coursed through his veins, flowing from the tips of his fingers to the soles of his feet.
Once again, he began his leisurely tread through the detective’s residence. The interior was rather bare; the most extravagant decoration was an empty vase situated beside the coal fireplace. No traces of a family. Oh, well. That merely meant nobody would care enough to mourn the Investigator’s loss.
Cocking his ear, he was able to pick up faint traces of panicked breathing from the floor above him. That wouldn’t do, no, that wouldn’t do at all. He needed the man to scream, to fill his ears with the birdsong of guttural wails. He needed the man to regret ever interfering with the Necromancer’s life, needed him to beg and cry for the sweet release of death.
“I am granting you fifteen seconds to hide before I come looking,” drawled the sorcerer as he approached the staircase. Silently beginning the countdown, he realized just how invigorated he really felt. The surge of strength was due to the Necronomicon, of course, but he had a suspicion the pure thrill of the hunt played a role as well.
Sounds of panicked movement became more apparent as he ascended to the second floor. It was equally as dull as the first, with uninspired white walls and plain wooden planks lining the ground.
Ten, nine, eight. He pushed open the first door he saw, revealing a small, ugly bathroom.
Seven, six, five. The next room was clearly for guests, though he could easily deduce that it was empty.
Four, three, two. He stopped in front of the last room on the floor. The bastard hadn’t even bothered to close the door or muffle his cries. With a scoff, the Necromancer stepped inside, eyes immediately darting to the closet.
“Idiot,” he hissed, crossing the room in two strides and wrenching open the closet doors.
One.
A round pair of eyes stared up at him, pupils dilated with fear. He merely grinned back in response, reaching up a hand to pull off his mask.
Tonight would be a wonderful, musical night.